“I get the sense,” Quinn said, “that Rothhaven isn’t even trying when it comes to money, Stephen. He was cooped up indoors day after day. He amused himself with investing based on voracious reading and prodigious mental speculation. He’s some sort of investing savant. Whatever else is true, Constance and Althea will be lavishly provided for.”

“This is not particularly good news, is it?” Stephen asked, urging his horse into the trot.

“What could possibly be wrong with abundant settlements?”

“If Rothhaven is fabulously wealthy, his fortune could lure the unscrupulous into scheming against him. I will now imitate a man having a fit.”

Stephen shook the reins first, then wobbled his body, then made his limbs tremble as the horse slowed from a trot to a walk, then shuffled to a halt.

“Is that what Revanche is supposed to do?” Quinn asked.

“No,” Stephen said, sitting up and patting the horse’s neck. “He was supposed to come to an immediate stop and stand like a statue, but I purposely did not practice in the arena first, nor did I give him any verbal command to stand. We practiced this morning, then I put him away. This was an unannounced exam. He did well, he needs to do better. How’s Jane?”

Jane was expecting, a situation in which Stephen took an inordinate interest. Never had a man longed as fervently for a ducal nephew as Lord Stephen Wentworth apparently longed for one.

“She will be intermittently miserable for the next five months. I will be unrelentingly worried.”

“I know not what inspires more dread in me: Jane’s condition or the ongoing courtships of our sisters. Evidence of present or impending marital bliss faces me on every hand.”

Stephen, who was obnoxiously intelligent, sounded genuinely dumbfounded.

“It might be contagious, that bliss,” Quinn said. “Constance succumbed almost as soon as Althea brought Lord Nathaniel up to scratch. You’d best return to London posthaste, lest the ailment afflict you too.”

Stephen shot him a peevish look. “Hilarious, but if you think I will abandon our sisters before they are securely ensconced in the state of holy matrimony, you have spent too long impersonating a bear in the nursery. Neville Philpot saw Rothhaven’s seizure yesterday, and I beg leave to doubt that Philpot’s solicitude was motivated entirely by Christian charity. Philpot has something of a reputation.”

“You are, as usual, creating drama where none exists. Philpot will gossip with his confreres, and Lady Phoebe will loudly remember His Poor, Infirm Grace in her endless prayers and small talk, and nobody will take any note of either of them.”